Desirable Destruction
by applesandarrows4life
Summary: Raven hair, red lips, enchanting face, and the habit of leaving destruction in her wake. He knows that she's untraceable, knows she's a psychopath and has skills that go beyond what's human. He's going to get himself killed, but his unhealthy obsession with finding her disregards the human instinct to protect his own life. He will find her, the woman who has yet to be caught. O/S.


Moment of clarification: I have been working on this for a while and while **yes** , it is a OS, I have been developing it into a proper story line (I have like 5 chapter written) with the intent on posting future chapters. I do write quite a lot and this is way more complex and carefully written than what I usually do write (I love a writing challenge as a Literature student) so bare with me if it's utter crap (not too keen on the name either. I've changed it like five times)...

This story is set in a fictional verse in a fictional city (Misthaven) which is why the district names can get away with what they are (Neverland, Wonderland etc) ahaha.

Also don't expect an update anytime soon, because this just sets the story up and as a (just turned) 17 year old I have a load of responsibilities with my A Levels so uh... yeah. This is just something I wanted to post to see if it's any good (please let me know) - I might take it down soon I dunno, but for now this is a short prolugue on what I intend to be way more.

I don't own the characters or OUAT. All Mistakes are mine - enjoy x

* * *

Where she came from, he doesn't know.

* * *

 _ **R &R**_

* * *

 _It was a random Saturday afternoon, he was standing in his office - the one he uses to work from home - drinking expensive scotch whilst looking over the incomparable Misthaven city skyline from the window. The weatherman on the radio was mumbling in the background - saying that the temperature in the city was dropping fast, snow would soon be upon them, to dress warmly and drive safe._

 _He'd always hated the cold. London had been cold and dreary most of the time, and seemingly he couldn't escape it._

 _Papers were scattered over his large brown desk, recent reports and files that he'd been reviewing. The musk in the air from both his cologne and the wooden furniture around the room hung in his nose, suffocating him._

 _He hated the long days, the days where all was calm, when there was no mission to be completed, no murders to be solved by people more adept than detectives. He'd always been the type who thrived off of challenges._

 _As if somebody had been listening to his thoughts (he wouldn't put it past anyone after some of the things he'd seen) the matte black telephone on the cabinet by the door started to blare out it's high pitched ringing noise, indicating that he had a call._

 _He let a sly grin spread across his face, because this particular phone only ever rang when something was of extreme urgency and importance._

 _Despite the importance of the situation, he placed his scotch onto the bookshelf beside the window slowly, taking one last look across the view of Misthaven._

 _Whatever he was about to be assigned better be important and time consuming._

 _After a moment he took calm steps past his desk and over to the cabinet where the phone was still ringing. He knew that once it started it didn't stop until it was answered._

 _Reaching a blazer clad arm down to touch the smooth material of the phone, he closed his rough fingers around it and picked it up, bringing it close to his ear._

" _Unit-23 base Sherwood - mission on Red Alert warning, looking for Agent Hood. Please confirm Identification," the strong voice of a man came from the other end of the line, and he had to stop himself from letting out a cry of happiness. This was a Red Alert mission, meaning that it was most definitely going to be challenging._

 _"Agent Hood of sector Sherwood, unit-23, ID PG23RLH speaking," he replied, waiting as three long beeps came from the other end of the line. He knew that it was the voice identification - you could never be too careful in a profession such as this, and when the beeps stopped and he was greeted with the voice of his superior, Chief Agent Gold, his excitement grew._

 _"Locksley," ah, so Gold was using his real name? "I believe you've been told that this mission is Red Alert?" Robin 'hmm'ed and Gold continued. "I mean it Locksley, this is serious. You have the drive, you have the rush and the need to be faced with a challenge - you enjoy the fight, but when I say that this is Red Alert, it's Red Alert and it's not something for you to just enjoy."_

 _Robin sighed and nodded his head, despite the fact that Gold couldn't see him. "I take every mission seriously; whether I enjoy it or not, the mission is always completed - or am I wrong?" Robin remarked, glancing to his watch, noting that it had just past 14:00, and then looking over to the window again._

 _"As one of my best Agents, I'm trusting you with this mission. It's deadly, I'll warn you. It's also near impossible, complicated, possibly-"_

 _"Just give me the mission, already," Robin groaned, tired of his superiors wordplay._

 _"It's a woman."_

* * *

 _ **R &R**_

* * *

It's been a month since that phone call.

She appeared from nowhere. Nobody can work out who she is, who she works for (if she even works for anybody), or how on Earth she does the things that she does. They know a few things, of course. Since the day that she'd been brought to the attention of the K.I (Kingdom Intelligence) they've found out three things about her. Three.

It doesn't seem like a lot, but three things discovered about the untraceable, unstoppable, seemingly ruthless psychopath of a woman, is rather impressive.

They know her face. It was deliberate on her end, that much is clear. If she didn't intend for her face to be seen, it wouldn't have been, he knows that for sure.

Her face is of delicate curvature, looks as if it had been pre-crafted to look enchantingly perfect in every way. Her dark eyes are the first thing that capture him every time. They're a mystery to him, they show no emotion, give away no clue as to what she's thinking, and yet they're so detailed and endless that he can do nothing but look into them. He's always drawn to her lips, next. The deep blood red color that is more often than not painted onto them, is almost as dangerous as her deadly nature.

The fact that he knows that she has enough information in her mind, that were it to be spoken from those deadly red lips, could cause mass destruction on a devastating scale makes him all the more fascinated with her. The dark, silky, raven tresses that flow past her shoulders in elegant curls and fall delicately around her face make him wonder how she keeps it so beautiful. She can pull off getaways and murders and yet can still keep her black locks looking like they've just fallen into place. The olive pigmentation of her skin looks flawless and smooth in all of the photos that he has of her. It compliments her dark hair and eyes, and draws attention to the less than subtle shade of her lips.

She is a Goddess. In every sense of the word.

The second thing that they know about her is that she is a psychopath dead set on killing somebody for revenge.

The reason he had gotten the call on that (now quite significant) Saturday, was because there had been an attempted murder on somebody quite important. Her name is Mary Margaret Blanchard, one of the most average people that Robin has ever had the pleasure of not actually meeting - since she's in a coma. She's a teacher, but her father is a PD (presumed dead) agent at K.I. and that means that she has protection privileges, so when this psychopath tried to murder who they're calling "M.M.B.", the first photograph of her was taken. His favorite one. The one where she is looking directly into the high quality security camera in M.M.B.'s house, dark eyes gleaming, red lips curved into a sly smile.

That's how he knows that she always intends to be photographed. Her expression says it all.

After that photograph was taken, it was matched on the K.I.'s database with the suspect linked to countless murders. Despite the suspicion, she'd never been on high enough alert for it to go past simple police investigation, but as soon as she tried to kill M.M.B., she was moved onto Red Alert, and brought to Robin's attention.

The last thing they about this fascinating woman, is that her name is certainly _not_ Cleopatra Willows.

It can't be Cleopatra Willows, because the first record of this name existing _anywhere_ came about just under six years ago. They've searched every database, and file and register everywhere, but no Cleopatra Willows, especially under her description, existed before six years ago. It's an alias. He knows, that she knows, that they know that it's an alias, and yet the disturbing thing is that she doesn't seem to care. With skills like hers, if she wanted to she could probably come up with an identity that nobody would ever discover as false, and yet she didn't.

She is the most complicated psychopath he has ever come across. She has the tendencies of a Primary Psychopath; The immunity to disapproval, stress and punishment. The apparent incapability of experiencing emotions. The violence, the disregard of rules - all of that. Only she has a clear goal. Primary psychopaths don't tend to have clear goals for their lives, and therefore it complicates things.

Especially since she also has the characteristics of a Charismatic Psychopath. She has the charm, she's appealing. She's irresistible. He doesn't know if she can manipulate - not yet. He'll know that when he finds her, because _he will_ find her.

But still, she's a mystery - a challenge, and he can't resist it. He needs to find her, and not just because it's his mission. He wants to pick her brains. Wants to give some closure to his fascination.

The fact that it has been impossible for anybody to trace her yet is all the more alluring.

What he needs to work out is why she wants to kill M.M.B. If only she would wake up, then the mission would probably be almost completed. He'd know her real name (if MMB actually does know her personally, which all evidence points to the fact that she does) and he would know why she tried to kill her. Then maybe he can find her, and find out why she's killed all the people she has, work out where she learned the skills that he was trained for _years_ to have.

He looks around his home office now. Looks around at the walls, covered in maps and images of her, people who could know her and of course, her victims. He only has six images of her face.

He has the first one, the one where she's looking directly into the camera, smirking. There's one of her outside of a store, taken from a security camera directly across the road from her. The image is grainy, but he can see her quite clearly. Her bundle of black curls are pulled into a ponytail, her head is facing the other way, and yet one of her palms is facing the camera, holding three fingers. The next day, three bodies had been found around that area.

The third photograph is the most interesting.

It's the only one with her whole body in it. She's walking through a park that he thinks is somewhere in the Wonderland District. She's wearing a white pencil dress, and he always chuckles at the irony of white representing innocence, when this woman is anything but. It's daytime in the image, the sun is shining, green trees are in the background - slanted slightly in the image from a possible breeze.

What's interesting about the image, is that it's of two children. They're twins, he thinks. A boy and a girl, with blonde hair, blue eyes and bright smiles. The girl - she's slightly taller - has one arm around her brothers heck, their cheeks pressed together as they smile at the camera and whoever is behind it. He see's _her_ in the background, she's under a lamppost, arms folded, looking directly at the children. Her face is neutral, he can't tell what she's thinking or how she's feeling (he never really can in the photos) and yet she doesn't look dangerous in these. The usual edge that's in all of the other photos he has of her isn't there. She's just looking at these children.

What he finds interesting about the image, though, is that after it was taken, she went off the raider. Since her attempt on MMB, which was a week before this photo, she'd been killing people every day.

After this, she'd gone missing.

They still haven't traced her location since. It's been three weeks. No bodies, no smirking into cameras. No attempts at the hospital that they're keeping MMB at. A hospital that's discrete, one they hope _she_ won't find.

They've had nothing, and it's scaring everybody at the agency.

Well, until yesterday, that is.

The last image, the most recent one, was taken yesterday. It's a push back. He knows it is. It's the back of her head and shoulders. That's right, she's not even facing the camera and yet she lets her intentions show.

She has her hand raised in the photo. It's raised just above her head, balled into a fist apart from one finger. One finger is up, and they can't work out what it means. It should be simple - and they thought that it was.

They thought that it meant one body would be found, and yet as soon as the photograph was taken yesterday afternoon in central Misthaven they'd gone to scope the area for a dead person but found none. They'd then considered that it meant one day, but it's almost 19:00 and there has been no sign of activity from her. He considers that it could be a message for somebody else - maybe whoever she works for, but he can't be sure.

He just knows it's a push back, and soon there will be destruction.

He's going to get himself killed, surely, but his unhealthy obsession with finding her disregards the human instinct to protect his own life. She's deadly, she's dangerous, and he may think that she is part Goddess, but he's also more than sure that she is two parts hell.

* * *

 _ **R &R**_

* * *

She sits at a small table furthest from the door, white Caramel Macchiato clasped in her newly manicured hands, one patent-red Louboutin clad foot tapping lightly on the marble floor as she waits.

Her black Belladonna hat rests on top of her hair, hiding her face so long as her head stays at this tilted down angle, looking at the tables mosaic surface. She didn't choose this cafe just because of its vintage, elegant charm. The key feature is that it's discreet.

She needs discretion with what she's about to do. It's why she's hiding her face now. If she's recognized then they can locate her. Misthaven is a big city, but the district that she's in, Storybrooke, the source of her bad memories and aching heart, is not big. Her contact had asked to meet here, the place she has not been for years, and if she's traced here by any spies, they'll find her. She can't have them finding her before she gets her revenge.

The cafe is quiet, at the moment. She knows that there's a couple sat at the large six seat table by the window, and she despises people that choose to sit at tables intended for groups. She also knows that there is a young woman sat at the counter, reading what looked like "Little Women" when she'd seen it. She'd analyzed these main points within three seconds of walking into the room.

As soon as she'd come in, her dark eyes had done a quick sweep to check for security cameras without stopping her journey.

One above the door, facing the counter, another above the counter, facing the room.

By the time she'd seen them and then angled her face so that she was hidden, she'd deduced that the furthest seat from the door, where she's sat now, is probably the only seat in the room that's just out of the peripheral view of both cameras. During this time she'd walked up to the counter, spoken her order to the lady behind it, and then had walked to her seat. She'd double checked the people she'd seen as she entered the room - just making sure that none of them were any of those _damned spies_ , and once she was satisfied, she'd pulled out her current mobile device, checking the time.

This all happened around three minutes ago, and that means that her contact should be here any second. They'd arranged to meet at 19:00, and that's the exact time now. She always makes a point to be at least three minutes early to any of these meetings, just in case she's walking into a trap.

On the off chance that she gets here early and her contact _still_ tries to set her up, at least she's had time to scope out the area for the easiest escape.

She recognizes the sound of the bell above the door ringing, and then she listens to the subtle sound of footsteps. She listens and deduces that the person is a man, at least six foot, he's wearing boots - they sound like the generic boots of an officer and _good_. He's here.

She doesn't look up until he sits down, his chair scraping on the floor in the process, the small grunt he lets out tells her he's seated.

She glances at him, taking in his scruffy beard and dark hair. He hasn't shaved in a while, then.

Her minor distraction is cut off by him reaching into a briefcase that she's only just noticed, and then he's pulling out a few sheets of paper, a paper clip with a photograph attached to one of them.

She puts her drink down, because this is good news, she hopes. She can feel it bubbling up already.

The excitement, the blood lust, the pure _drive_ of being closer to her goal. If he's pulled out paper then that means he has information, and information is what she needs.

She has the skills, she has the motivation but what she needs is the information that he clearly has and is taking his sweet time to give to her.

"I assume you've found her then," she says in a voice that's way calmer than she feels. She's trying to rush him, it's been approximately eight seconds since he'd pulled the damn stuff from his brief and he needs to stop _teasing_ her. Even though he isn't.

He sighs then, placing three sheets down onto the table which she eagerly angles so they're facing her. "It wasn't easy, but yes, Cleopatra, I have."

* * *

 _ **DESIRABLE DESTRUCTION**_


End file.
